A POETICAL EPISTLE From BUSY, the Lap-dog, in London, to SNOWBALL, the Buck-hound, in Windsor Forest

If we, like men, could envy and malign, At Nature's, or at Fortune's gifts repine; When great be insolent, when little mean, When rich and fat disdain the poor and lean. Then might I, puisny Busy, thy vast size Contemplate, mighty hound, with grieving eyes: Thy strength, thy nose sagacious, snow-white coat, And most the tuneful thunder of thy throat; Then might I, Busy, deck'd with em'ralds, scorn The starv'ling puppy gnawing a stag's horn Beneath the hovel, red with ash of peat, And think the wretch as odious as his meat: But nor contempt nor envy shook my breast, Thee I admir'd, and Empress I carest, Tho' in her nonage the poor simple whelp Kept no decorums, and scarce knew to yelp; Empress may prove the terror of the wood, For Empress, mighty Snowball's of thy blood. Say, did I not accept at romps a game With the black young cur? I forget his name. His life in dirt and poverty begun, Yet he may rise the fav'rite of the gun. And I've heard it said where I have din'd, That true distinction amongst human kind Lies in the qualities, and in the mind. O Snowball! with what pleasure I confess Thy condescension to my littleness; When on the floor I dar'd approach thee near, And gaz'd on the fine lappet of thine ear, (At thy fair temples then my sattin hue Seemed a black modish patch to distant view) To lick thy chaps, to pinch thy spacious paws, Unfear'd the range of jav'lins in thy jaws; Or on my hindlegs bolt upright, have tried To reach the curious flavour of thy hide, Thou did'st not growl, thou did'st not swing a tail Might snap my ribs as ears of corn the flail; Conscious what dignity from goodness springs, And much too great to spurn at tiny things. All homage may your grandeur long receive From lap-dogs due, and long unrival'd live, Be stroak'd, be fed by that accomplish'd hand, Whose pen, my master says, adorns the land. O happy Snowball! happy Cranbourn wood! Too happy rustics, did ye know your good! Lo! the tenth Muse illuminates your cot; Ah, wretched rustics,—ye perceive her not! Eat, Snowball, legs of mutton, while small I Crack biscuit, gingerbread, and crust of pye; Or lap the remnants of the milky bowl, Which none on earth shall ever prove I stole. Joy thou in Windsor's verdant park and air, Pursue the chase, and in the daughter share; Live in the favour of that learned fair. If my dear mistress smiles and pats my head, If she vouchsafes a corner of her bed, Busy's content, and to her latest gasp Will taste the happiness within her grasp.